


Deeds of Surpassing Valor

by Foegerfeax



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 12:24:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18992608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foegerfeax/pseuds/Foegerfeax
Summary: Himring survives the Dagor Bragollach.





	Deeds of Surpassing Valor

When they saw the fire in the distance, it took less than an hour for a troop of scouts to be dispatched from Himring. To the night watchmen on the walls, the searing eruption might have signaled a respite from the frost plaguing them. But they were no fools. They knew where Thangorodrim lay; they saw the origin of the eruption. They were used to going directly to Lord Maedhros at the merest hint of unusual occurrences, and he never showed the slightest hint of annoyance at being disturbed, even for alarms that proved false, even late at night and in the early hours of the morning. Often he was not even asleep.  
  
On this, the first day of the Dagor Bragollach, he was. Asleep, and dreaming, though the guard who came to wake him could not have known; and, in the event, he was glad to be woken at the sharp rapping on the door. The sound pulled him loose from the nightmares like a rope thrown to a drowning man. He sat up with one long gasp of breath, a painfully clear lungful of the biting winter air, and through sheer force of will his confusion and exhaustion dissipated into alertness.  
  
"Come in," he called, no trace of a tremble in his voice.  
  
The guard obeyed. Opening the door he was able to see the Lord of Himring in silhouette, only half-risen, auburn hair trailing over the deep shadows in the hollow of a smooth white shoulder shot through with scars. Maedhros' face was in shadow, but the guard somehow felt the gaze upon him through the darkness, an uncanny force which required no vision, as though the eyes of his Lord reflected temperature rather than light. It was unsettling; but not enough to overcome the urgency of the situation. The guards of Himring lived easily with this particular half-fear. He spoke quickly without pausing to bow or wait for permission. "My Lord, there is fire in the sky over Thangorodrim. Liquid flame spreads across Ard Galen. I fear-”  
  
Before he could finish speaking, Maedhros was flinging off his blankets, throwing on a tunic, and striding out the door, feet bare, painfully white on the icy flagstones. The guard hurried along the rampart in his wake.  
  
The view towards the north was blocked by a square tower hunched menacingly over the city walls, but Maedhros began to run and, passing around the turret, came to an unobstructed view of the wide vista over the ramparts - and stopped short at the sight of the fire spreading from Thangorodrim.  
  
Hot and white as it erupted, rolling orange down the rocky slopes of the triple mountains, cooling to a slower but more poisonous flood of searing crimson on the ground; its light reflected off a low-lying shield of acrid smog and tinted the winter sky an angry red. A cloud of thicker, roiling smoke dominated the horizon. For a second Maedhros rested his hand lightly on the stone of the rampart, staring, as a few stray snowflakes blew into his face along with the first sour hint of the smell of smoke. Then he turned sharply back to the guard hovering behind him. “Send out a scouting party immediately. Then go wake the Councilors.”  
  
At his order the twenty scouts on duty roused themselves from the barracks blearily but equally uncomplaining, equipped themselves, and rode out. By the time they disappeared into the darkness, the Councilors had been assembled. It was little more than forty minutes since the fire had first spewed forth from the peaks of Thangorodrim.

 

When they arrived in the bare chamber, the Councilors found their Lord already pacing the front of the room in full armor, chin up and arms clasped placidly behind his back, a distinct silhouette of silver and white against the rough-hewn grey of the stone walls, grey cast in blue by the stark brilliance of the Fëanorian lamps lining the walls. As ever, his face was impassive as a statue, intense despite the exhaustion betrayed by the shadows under his eyes. He would have appeared unconcerned by the situation, but for the earliness of the hour and the haste with which the meeting had been called. He wore no cloak, though the nighttime chill of Himring winter sent his breath streaming upwards in plumes of white.  
  
“Good morning, Councilors,” was his composed greeting - half a joke, for the sun would not yet rise for several hours and the news brought by the night had been far from good. He stopped pacing but remained standing before them as they silently took their seats around the plain wooden table, shadows lurching in the blue light. His eyes scanned the room, and, sure that all were present, he began speaking before they had all settled.  
  
“The Morgoth has launched an attack,” he said without flourish. “Fire spreads from Thangorodrim. This is all we know so far. Scouts have been dispatched to investigate. I want the watchmen doubled immediately, and the gate will remain closed when the sun rises, to be opened only for the returning scouting party, or confirmed allies or refugees.” He paused, and, seeing no challenge from the Captain of the Guard, continued just as quickly, turning towards the other side of the table.  
  
“Gilnarion, you will put extra Proctors on the streets and make it known that labor tax for civil infractions will be doubled until the repairs on the south wall are finished - call in the unpaid taxation immediately. All rations will be cut by one quarter for soldiery, and by one third for civilians-” - he directed this at yet another Councilor, who nodded – “and labor tax for fraud or other violations regarding rations will be quadrupled.  
  
“Elgon. When refugees start arriving - and let us pray they will - keep them separate from the rest of the population. Requisition the northeast quarter, and have provisions ready. You can relocate the usual occupants to wherever they will fit. We cannot have refugees mixing with the city until it is certain what we are facing. Nor would I have chaos in the streets. And Gilnarion, have the Proctors on high alert to escort any wayward refugees back to the proper location.”  
  
Maedhros paused for breath, looked back to the Councilor responsible for resource management. “You must also inform the citizenry and craftsmen that the sumptuary edicts are in full effect. And cut the use of wood in accordance with your judgment; I cannot recall the current status of our stock exactly, but know that it is possible it must last the whole winter,” he warned, “If not longer, and it is possible it must provide for an inflated population. And a weakened one.” In response the Councilor, already flipping open a folder of parchment to check the records, gave a nod. Maedhros went on.  
  
“Nimedhel will see to it that the garrison is fully ready for action, and all reserves are called to the barracks. I want fifty cavalry and fifty foot inside the gate, ready for my orders at a moment's notice, at all times. The remainder can rest in shifts, divided by squadron, but must be ready at all times for full mobilization in under an hour. I'm sure I do not need to add that those with skill as a healer must be brought to the barracks’ infirmary.”  
  
As though caught halfway between physical weakness and an earnest desire to emphasize his next orders, Maedhros leaned forward over the table on his left arm. “We must all of us be ready to face hardship, unto our utter ruin, unflinching. If we are to perish, I would have our ending be such that the Valar themselves would quake to witness it. Yet I would prefer we live, to make the Morgoth quake. You will show either valor in death, or indomitable stubbornness in survival. Any questions?” His eyes flicked across the table. No one responded. “Good,” he said, drawing up to his full height with vital finality. “I don't want delays. See that all is done and expect to meet again soon when the scouts return. Or sooner, if they do not.”  
  
With that he abandoned his position at the end of the table and swept out the door, signaling with a flick of his hand as he retreated that the meeting was adjourned. After a moment the Councilors followed suit and departed to fulfill their orders.   
  
The scouts did not return until the twilight just before sunrise, the twilight become a deeper artificial darkness by the machinations of Morgoth. The first weak beams of grey sun struggled and failed to light the ragged band of riders that came tearing across the plain towards Himring, but the watchmen saw them coming. The gates opened for them and their Lord was waiting.  
  
At the call of the guards, Maedhros stood up from the stack of crates by the gate where he had been perched while waiting, nearly dozing, firmly enveloped in his cloak. His arms and legs were almost numb. He had to take a swift step out of the way as the horses came plunging through the archway, mad and seemingly barely under control, snorting smoke into the frigid air. As it was the leading rider nearly trampled him. Maedhros grabbed the bridle of the nearest horse as it passed, forcing it to still, though it continued to shuffle and nicker nervously, eyes wide.  
  
“Report, Tauremir,” Maedhros said sharply.  
  
“M-my lord, the nearest cavalry outpost is overrun. The others must be - we barely made it out alive,” the rider gasped. “Orcs - balrogs - we saw something bigger in the distance heading east. The fire - the fumes are poisonous. Arloth-”  
  
Dropping the bridle and allowing the horse to move on, Maedhros looked to the next rider, who clutched a companion, slumping unconsciously, to his chest. Maedhros cursed. “Take him to the infirmary,” he directed. “Go!”  
  
“My Lord Maedhros!” called the last scout, reigning in his steed with difficulty as the gates thudded shut behind him. “The fire has consumed Ard Galen - the burning spreads. The cavalry outposts are aflame. The garrisons dead. The pass of Aglon must have been taken by storm - we were fired upon, we could go no further, but there is no way-”  
  
Maedhros cut in forcefully. “Nendekáno. What must we expect?”  
  
The rider visibly composed himself. “A band of yrch at least two thousand strong heads for Himring,” he replied, rising in his saddle as his horse bucked. “Less than four hours out. I could not see siege engines or valaraukar among them, but there must be reinforcements further north, hidden by the shade. They will sweep all before them! I fear we are lost-”  
  
“Not while we still wield swords,” Maedhros said grimly. “Ride on! Go to the barracks for food and rest, and see that you do not spread despair. Tell Councilor Nimedhel to direct all to ready themselves for mobilization: we will meet this rabble of orcs on the field of battle in three hours. And we will destroy them.” He turned away from the scouts retreating to the barracks and climbed the rough ladder up onto the ramparts.  
  
He scanned the watchmen on the walls, and choosing one walked up behind him. Eyes fixed upon the sky over Thangorodrim, the guard had not heard Maedhros’ approach and jumped at the touch on his shoulder before straightening into a respectful stance.   
  
“Good my Lord!” he said.  
  
“Morluin,” Maedhros said, ignoring the watchman’s clear surprise at being addressed by name. “You are a fast runner, are you not? Stay close to me. As soon as the enemy is near enough to take account of, I will make a decision about our tactics. You must relay this to Councillor Nimedhel in the barracks with utmost haste.”  
  
“My Lord, I will.”  
  
“But please fasten the buckle on your quiver properly. The last thing we want is to have arrows strewn across our ramparts while the enemy advances upon us. Tripping archers have poor aim.”  
  
Hastily the guard complied.  
  
Maedhros rested his arms on the wall, leaning out over the edge, and set his eyes upon the curve of the land where the enemy would emerge from the smog. And there he waited, immobile as a statue, while his army mustered within.  
  
It took several hours for the orcs to come clearly into view from the walls, and when they did it took Maedhros only a few minutes to scan their forces with narrowed eyes, make his judgment, and send Morluin on his way with directions for the fight. He made no speech; the veterans of Himring had not known open war for a long time, but they had known battle. And drills more grueling than most genuine battles were.  
  
When the orcs began to array in battle formation before Himring, the light of the sun was dimmed but no longer utterly choked. And the orcs had not anticipated encountering a fully organized army of experienced cavalry awaiting their arrival, partly arrayed in front of the city and partly concealed in the foothills to the orcs’ western flank. As the dark mass of troops approached the field before Himring, the hidden cavalry charged, taking out a significant portion of the army before they could even load their bows. The main force charged; the orcs were crushed in a wedge between the two groups and barraged by a hail of arrows from the ramparts.  
  
The battle was a short one, a matter of hours; a quick but hollow victory physically overshadowed by the heavy, smog-smeared sky, with its threatening promise of more attacks to come. As the army returned into the city following the victory, Maedhros reigned in his horse, turning to face the troops, and stood up in his saddle, holding his maimed arm high to draw attention.  
  
“Thus for all who dare climb this hill with the intent of taking it!” he shouted, gesturing at the carnage of the battlefield. The soldiers roared and raised their bloody swords in response.  
  
“My Councillors, we meet now!” he called out over the dying roar. “Do not take time to rest or clean unless you cannot walk. I await you!” With that he galloped into the city, pausing only to give an order to the Proctors just inside the walls.  
  
The Councilors trudged directly from the field of battle to the city gate and up the stairs to the tower where they had met in the early morning, just a few hours before, though reckoning by all that had occurred it seemed far longer. Once more Maedhros had anticipated their arrival and stood at the front of the room, black blood splattering his armor and cloak, and red trickling from a shallow cut over one cheekbone. His naked blade, uncleaned, was tucked precariously into his belt so as not to clog the scabbard with gore. The Councilors were equally war-worn, but none seriously wounded. Nor did any seem as indifferent to the blood, as unaffected by the exertion of battle, as their Lord. He might have been waiting to brief them on something so mundane as terms of trade with neighboring cities.  
  
The Councilors settled tiredly but efficiently, some cleaning weapons, some nursing bruises and mild cuts. Though his own exhaustion hovered on the edge of his conscious like a vulture ready to swoop on prey, Maedhros waited only a moment before speaking.  
  
“We have had victory today. I do not need to tell you that this means little, given the power we now face. We have much to do if we mean to prolong our victory - our survival - into something that _does_ matter.” A pause, allowing for commentary that did not come. “Have there been any problems enacting my orders of this morning?”  
  
Councilor Elgon shifted in his seat. “My Lord. I have not finished relocating the residents of the northeast quarter. The call to battle-”  
  
Maedhros cut him off with a hand. “You will be done before nightfall?”  
  
“Yes, my Lord.”  
  
“That is acceptable. Councilors?”  
  
“The repairs on the wall will not be complete for many days,” Councilor Gilnarion spoke up. “But I called in the labor tax as directed and we may expect good progress to be made, so long as the temperature does not drop too low for the mortar to dry.”  
  
A displeased quirk of the mouth. “Let us hope it does not, then. At least it does not freeze like other mortar. Any other delays? No?”  
  
The Councilors shook their heads.  
  
“Very well. I will now describe the situation as it seems to me. If there is anything you wish to add, please speak up.” He folded his arms once more behind his back, assuming the placid posture of an orator. “The Morgoth has sent fire and noxious fumes from Thangorodrim, followed swiftly by troops of orcs and, in some cases, balrogs, and possibly other creatures previously unknown to us. We have managed to repel the first wave of this attack. And we must assume it is to be but the first of very many. We have made some according preparations.” He looked once more around the room, inviting interjections.  
  
“The wind, my Lord,” a Councilor said quickly. “It is a northerly, but weak. If it picks up, the fumes will intensify. Two of the scouts were caught in its full power and they have something like spirit sickness. They have not fully awoken - they cough black stuff.”  
  
“Yes.” Maedhros touched his face in thought, absently smearing blood along his jawline. “Arloth and Brandil.”  
  
“The healers are seeking a cure,” the Councilor added.  
  
Maedhros did not answer for a moment, deep in thought. “Airborne poison... I am more concerned about how to stop the fumes from affecting us if we are forced to fight under their full strength. A fabric mask dipped in the right herbs, perhaps…”  
  
“I will have the craftsmen and healers collaborate in looking into this,” another Councilor offered.  
  
A curt nod. “Good. See that you do. Now – as to other concerns. Our scouts were able to return from their little trip, which suggests that the challenge which we face need not mean instant death. It can be evaded and fought off, like any other. However,” he added drily, “I doubt most of our allies were able to have an army thousands strong ready shortly after daybreak. We must expect significant numbers of refugees from fallen strongholds and villages.” He suddenly frowned. “Now that I consider, they may include mortal men.”  
  
Some of the Councilors exchanged concerned glances.  
  
“No matter.” Maedhros dismissed the thought. “They will have to attend to their own poor health. We cannot waste precious time planning for mortal decrepitude. Now, a few quick matters to address.” With that, he began rattling off orders rapidly, counting them off as he gestured with his left hand. “Miruvor must be rationed. Reserved only for soldiery. Gilnarion, have the Proctors cover the spring and wells. If the fumes in the sky cause precipitation to become impure, we do not want it to contaminate our water. Elgon, requisition what blankets and coverlets you can for the use of refugees. It may not yet be too cold for our mortar to harden, but it is certainly too cold for tired fugitives to recover if we are rationing firewood. Finally, we also need someone to begin planning for the integration of these refugees into the city system, long term, as our Proctor Captain will have his hands full. Anyone?”  
  
Before he even finished the question, several Councilors had raised their hands in silent volunteer.  
  
Maedhros selected a Councilor with a careless gesture and went on without missing a beat. “Celeros. Prepare some system of identifying refugees, both from the citizenry and each other; do not cut corners, for they may be here a long time and I want to maintain tight control over issued rations. And take a few Proctors to explain how things work here in Himring as they arrive. The newcomers may be... confused. If they are, tell them they are welcome to take their chances with the less austere government of the Morgoth outside the city walls.”  
  
A few Councilors almost smiled in grim amusement. But they were too tired, and their Lord's sardonic demeanor did not seem to be one of genuine jest. Celeros inclined his head.  
  
“Preparations for tonight, then,” Maedhros said briskly, resting his gore-stained hand on the pommel of his sword. “I have dispatched further scouting parties to the east and west to gather what intelligence they can without incurring too much risk from the fumes and roving orcs. No matter what they learn, the watchmen must be vigilant. I want extra supplies of arrows available on the ramparts and masks to cover the mouth and nose of all on duty. Treated with herbs, if a solution is found by then, or not; it may be that a fabric filter makes a difference enough. And all healers must remain on hand in the barracks infirmary, resting in shifts. Oh, and I want extra archers on the unfinished portion of the south wall and a ready squadron under it, as a deterrent and insurance in case the enemy is aware of the weakness there. Any other suggestions for our defenses tonight?”  
  
“I will have the guardsmen work on reinforcing the main gate, and have materials on hand to barricade it completely if need be,” suggested the Captain of the Guard.  
  
“Thank you. Anything else?”  
  
Gilnarion spoke up. “You did not mention it, but I took the prerogative of having the Proctors enforce emergency curfew, and ban civilians from the ramparts and upper walkways. We do not want them interfering if we need to move troops through the city quickly.”  
  
“A prerogative I appreciate your having taken,” Maedhros replied. Councillor Nimedhel and the Captain of the Guard nodded approval.  
  
Maedhros glanced out the slit of a window towards the field of battle. The light was fading fast, though it was not long past noon. “I am bound to adumbrate the burial arrangements I have made for our fallen,” he said heavily. “I intend for this to be a standard for the duration of the winter. The ground is too hard to dig a mass grave. Neither is cremation possible, as we can spare neither wood nor oil. So, I have directed the Proctors collecting arrows from the battlefield to separate our dead from the enemy and bring their bodies inside the city walls. After removing their arms and armor the bodies will be-” Maedhros raised his voice over the flurry of shocked muttering. “After _removing their arms and armor_ , the bodies will be placed in the foundations of the public hall under construction in the northeast quarter.”  
  
The tone of the muttering became indignant.   
  
“My Lord,” Elgon said, standing up, “This is outrageous! To take the weapons of fallen warriors-”  
  
“I do not like it, Councilor,” Maedhros replied. “But I do not see we have any choice. This state of crisis may last longer than any of you foresee; we do not know the extent of it. But I do not believe the Morgoth would make such a rash attack in order to take Ard Galen and Himlad alone. No, this may very well be the Morgoth's bid to overcome all of Beleriand. And beyond. We will have need of swords and armor. And we may have no means of acquiring more.” He looked around the room, daring any to disagree.  
  
“Fine - but to pile unburied corpses in our city-”  
  
“What would you suggest?” Maedhros demanded sharply. “We cannot cremate them. We cannot bury them until the spring. Would you have us leave them outside as loot and prey to any orcs who manage to approach our walls?”  
  
Elgon was silent.  
  
“Nor would I. So they will go in the foundations of the public hall. At least they will not putrefy until the ground softens enough to give proper burial, and they will not be violated by the enemy's hands.”  
  
“Spare the wood, my Lord,” Elgon begged. “Let their bodies be burned with proper ceremony.”  
  
“No.” Maedhros’ voice remained even, but the finality there was unmistakable. “We do not know how long our stores must last us, Councilor. I will not rob our living soldiers of warmth in this winter simply to spare empty corpses an indignity. That is all I will say on this matter.”  
  
Elgon relented, sat back down.  
  
“The families of the dead will not like it,” Gilnarion warned.  
  
Eyes flashing with frustration, Maedhros smacked his hand on the table so hard it shook. “Then the families of the dead may take their fallen loved ones out of Himring, and cremate them in the Morgoth's unclean flame, at their own risk! But they will not be welcome back inside these walls.”  
  
Oppressive silence followed his words. The Councilors shifted uncomfortably.  
  
“Now. One last thing, unless there are questions,” Maedhros said, stoic once more. There were no questions. “I have dispatched messengers to our allies. However, it is uncertain if these messages will get through. For the time being we are on our own, and figuratively as well as literally in the dark. But I trust Maglor to hold the Gap. Once Himring and its surroundings are secure, our first priority must be retaking the pass of Aglon. Nimedhel, you will develop a strategy in concert with whatever new information scouting parties acquire. But no scouts will ride far from the city until the problem of the fumes is resolved. I will not play dangerous games at a time like this. Thingol can protect himself, and… Himlad will hold. Until we can be sure of securing the pass. Are your duties clear?” This last question was addressed to the room at large. The Councillors murmured assent.  
  
“Clean yourselves up and take strength, but do not delay,” Maedhros warned. “It may be we face the enemy again ere nightfall. In any case, I believe we must expect to pass a singularly unpleasant night.”  
  
He stepped around the table and left the Councilors behind in the blue light of the meeting room, leaving them to attend to their needs and designated tasks. He made his way down the stairs. Out on the windswept rampart, he headed in the direction of his own quarters, nodding in recognition of the respectful greetings - and hurried cheers for the recent victory - of the guardsmen and Proctors rushing by. And then he turned a corner, opened the door to his room, and slipped at last into privacy.  
  
Heedless of the blood on his cloak, he leaned heavily against the closed door and slid down into a sitting position on the chilly stone floor, eyes screwed shut tight. The room was cold and bare, sporting only a bed, utilitarian chair and crowded table, and solitary wooden chest. The vacant hearth cast no light onto the surroundings, the fire of the previous evening having long since burnt out. Maedhros pulled his knees almost to his chest, rested his crossed arms upon them, and slowly lowered his head onto his arms, though the blood-clotted vambraces were far from comfortable. His limbs felt leaden. His head hurt, an insistent wad of pressure lodged behind his eyes.  
  
Such horror. Such death and suffering, such a vile way of treating the dead and the living. And the first flame had only just erupted forth from Thagorodrim. His mind drifted into a state halfway between guilty dozing and fitful wakefulness. He knew he ought to clean his sword and armor. He did not move.  
  
He sat in silence, extremities growing numb from the cold, for what must have been several minutes before a knock reverberated on the door at his back, forcing him to climb to his feet with difficulty. He yanked the door open, spilling brighter half-light into his unready eyes. “Yes?” he snapped.  
  
He loomed over the scout at the door, blood-splattered, looking one second away from casual murder. The scout drew back instinctively.  
  
“Yes, Carmir?” Maedhros repeated, forcing his voice to be more even.  
  
To his credit, the scout recovered his composure with admirable speed. “My Lord Maedhros. Our scouting parties have returned...”  
  
“ _Yes_?”  
  
Carmir hurriedly went on, squaring his shoulders. “Full report, my Lord: in the west, the Pass of Aglon is overrun and the enemy’s forces have made an encampment at the southern end of the pass. Troops amass there, presumably preparing to take Himlad by storm. No balrogs or siege engines have joined the encampment so far, but they have warg riders. Estimates put the total force there at no less than seven thousand, and more continue to arrive.”  
  
Himlad was a bare plain. Siege equipment and balrogs would likely be unnecessary to take the poorly defended strongholds there. He could only hope his brothers would be able to hold their forces together in the absence of fortified outposts long enough for the pass of Aglon to be retaken.  
  
“And the east?” Maedhros prompted, perhaps too harshly.  
  
“In the east the orcs have passed into Beleriand through the Gap, but have been checked in their advance by the arms of the river Gelion and scattered into small bands by the cavalry of Lord Maglor. The orcs spread fire and destruction, but it is unlikely they will be able to hold any significant territory unless they receive reinforcements-”  
  
“Will they?”  
  
“My Lord - I fear it is likely. Lord Maglor’s soldiers have not - ah, not _yet_ \- managed to re-close the Gap. And there are rumors of a beast to the north, a beast that crawls on four legs like a lizard, but larger than a balrog and capable of spewing poison fire.”  
  
“Larger than-! Rumors hardly provide reliable information,” Maedhros said. “Did you see this creature?”  
  
“No, my Lord. But, ‘rumour,’ I misspoke - we encountered some of Lord Maglor’s cavalry who had seen it in the distance, obscured by the shade. Their eyes are sharp and would not have been deceived by fearful fancy. I do not doubt what they speak of, my Lord.”  
  
Maedhros’ jaw tightened. “Very well,” he said shortly. “Thank you, Carmir.”  
  
The scout gave a slight bow and then rushed away, not without relief. Maedhros shut the door once more, scowling in thought.  
  
It would appear that the Morgoth had sent just enough troops to Himring to prevent their interfering with his efforts to control the passes into East Beleriand. And if his control of the passes remained uncontested, the land was his.  
  
Unconsciously Maedhros removed a clay bottle of wine from the table, and uncorking it poured a cup. He took a draught. The strong brown fluid went down his throat uneasily, over-chilled, a shock to his stomach after having eaten nothing for over twenty four hours. But the alcohol worked quickly at warming his blood. He finished the cup in another swallow and willed his head to cease its throbbing.  
  
The basin of water on the table crept with frost at the edges. Maedhros closed his eyes to it as he let his left hand wander automatically to clasps and buckles, letting his bloody armor drop piece by piece unceremoniously to the floor. At last he kicked it aside and bent over the basin, artlessly splashing the frigid water onto his face until it ran pink back into the container. The water stung the cut on his face, but he ignored it. He dried himself with a cloth and sat down to set about picking and cleaning his sword and armor. And the mindless method of it was enough to heal his heart off from the rest of the world like a scar.

 

***  
  
Outside the gathering dusk was darker than it had any right to be. The masked watchmen could see the fires of orc encampments in the near distance and once the full darkness of night had gathered, they launched an attack. They were repelled, easily but not without sacrifice. The night’s battle spread into a blur of nighttime siege and daytime skirmishes in the fields and hills; a sequence of open and covert conflicts always successful enough to keep the city free but never enough to make it secure. Sometimes the orcs pressed close to the walls; sometimes they were driven back far enough that squadrons of light troops were able to collect meagre provisions, or escort ragged bands of refugees back to the city, with only minimal losses. With a tremendous push they retook Aglon; the orcs took it back. The days passed in choking twilight. The stores dwindled. The bodies piled. Beleriand burned. Himring stood.  
  
Maedhros split his time between managing the city and leading troops. In time captaining his forces personally grew to be even more of a tactical advantage than his expertise provided; the orcs came to recognize and fear his unclad face, distinct among a helmeted and masked multitude, and at his approach they would often draw away into the hills or fly back towards the north even to Ard Galen. They feared his unparalleled skill in battle; and like his own men, though these would never admit it, they feared his ability to make an uncanny synthesis of Orc and Eldar; feared the beauty, the easy elegance, he brought to ferocious butchery. So they fled. But they always returned, and they always had numbers enough to keep Himring impotent. Maedhros sent out messengers that never returned. He planned instead of sleeping; he forswore his stomach and fed his sword. The severed heads of orcs festooned the ramparts, grotesque faces eerily preserved in the winter air.  
  
With a new flood of burned and terrified refugees came news that the defenses of Maglor's Gap had been overthrown, the stronghold there stormed - annihilated - by a gigantic golden beast that spewed fire like Thangorodrim itself. Thus the way of the Morgoth into East Beleriand was left wide open. Within days, Himlad, now assaulted on two sides, was utterly overrun in turn, the meagre defenders who had stayed there routed and scattered beyond knowledge. The scouts could not ascertain whether Himlad's people had fled or been destroyed, and there was no one left with whom to exchange intelligence; the land around Himring fell firmly into the hands of the enemy, worse than before.  
  
Maedhros did battle with the fervor of one who seeks death, and did not find it. But his left arm delivered it to the enemy, over and over and over until the blood spilled by his hand might have drowned Beleriand and made Himring a solitary island in a reeking sea of black.  
  
It was not enough to turn the tide.  
  
The city’s machinery continued operating with the smoothness of ancient routine, but it began to stink of despair; Maedhros could see it in the people’s eyes, the way they walked, the way they took careful stock of their rations, hoping that some miscalculation had been made, before eating them. The ration distribution in Himring did not make errors.  
  
Walking the streets at night cleared Maedhros’ head. They were clean and empty, devoid of the beggars and cripples that would have been clogging the doorways of a lesser city in the same situation: potential beggars were all provided for; cripples were sequestered away in the infirmary barracks receiving whatever treatment was required - merited - for the state they found themselves in, and the bravery that had brought it about. The air was cold, but Maedhros liked the cold. He liked the way it felt on his face - first soothing, and then numb.  
  
He walked, and fought, and worked, and it was nearly enough to make him forget that the world around him was crumbling swiftly into ash.  
  
One morning as the sun was beginning to lend a grey tint to the shield of black smog in the sky, a lone rider came to Himring from the south. Maedhros happened to be at the gate, recently returned from a brief and nearly disastrous foray into the hills. The soldiers who had survived - little more than half those who had left the city the previous afternoon - had all departed for the barracks, a tired and bloodied band desperate for rest, but their Lord loitered by the city entrance trying and failing to dress a stinking burn on his right shoulder with one hand alone. After a few pointedly ignored tentative suggestions that he see the healers, the guards occupied themselves with shuffling in the cold and trying not to pay attention to Maedhros’ abortive attempts at tying off the dirtied gauze with his teeth. It came as a relief when they caught sight of the snow being kicked up by the galloping horse.  
  
“My Lord, a rider approaches!” The guards were under standing orders to allow recognizable non-enemies into the city, but the announcement gave Maedhros an excuse to give up on the bandage and drop it unceremoniously to the ground.  
  


“Open the gates,” he ordered with a gesture, though he too knew it to be superfluous.  
  
The gates were drawn open and the horse charged through, wild-eyed and snorting foam, trailing the acrid scent of poisonous smoke. Its rider slid from he saddle and nearly collapsed as his feet hit the ground, and as Maedhros rushed to support him he saw two black-hafted arrows, one protruding from his upper arm, the other embedded deep in his chest just beside the shoulder.  
  
“I bring word from Lord Fingon in Hithlum,” the rider gasped, and blood flecked his lips. “A message.”  
  
And just like that, Maedhros could taste hope again. And oh, how the fear of losing it burned him.  
  
“Bring a healer!” he called hoarsely over his shoulder, heartbeat suddenly too loud and too fast in his ears. “Hurry!” He adjusted his grip on the messenger to be more secure, gritting his teeth against the sting it caused to flare in his own wound. The messenger let out a pained cry and clutched at his useless arm. Behind them the horse roared and plunged, streaming with sweat but too terrified to be brought under control.  
  
“Tell me the message,” Maedhros said desperately. It was all he could do not to shake the messenger. “ _Tell me the message!”_  
  
Still catching his breath, the messenger sucked in gasps of frigid air that were almost sobs. “P-poison...” he said, weakly indicating the arrow with his good arm. “I c-cannot-” His knees buckled once more and Maedhros hissed in pain as he jerked to suddenly support the messenger’s full weight.  
  
“ _Tell me the message!_ Tell me the message, for the love of Eru!” Maedhros knew he was shouting, knew he was snarling, saw the messenger’s half-lucid eyes widen in fear at the violence of his voice, yet he found himself powerless to affect a gentler tone. As the messenger’s eyes glazed over and consciousness slipped away, Maedhros frantically shifted the messenger’s full weight into his aching right arm, and slapped him across the face in a desperate attempt to wake him. “Tell me the _fucking_ message!”  
  
“Letter...” the messenger managed to slur, and as he fainted his hand strayed over the leather pouch slung across his shoulder.  
  
All at once the guards arrived with a healer, and suddenly there was a crowd around Maedhros to take the weight. He barely managed to snag the pouch before the messenger was borne away to the infirmary. Then the morning was still and silent once more.  
  
Taking a slow breath to steady himself, Maedhros opened the pouch with shaky fingers. Within, crumpled but unspoilt, lay a neatly folded piece of white parchment, addressed in a crisp, familiar hand to: Maitimo Nelyafinwë (Russandol), Lord of Himring.  
  
Maedhros called the Councilors.  
  


They assembled quickly in the tower, for being called at odd times to Council had become routine. Even if it had not, the language of the message calling them had been certain in its urgency. Some came newly woken from sleep, others bleary from long vigil. For his part, Maedhros’ exterior was as placid as ever as the Councilors filed in. But a new, affected calmness in his stance betrayed the importance of the matter at hand, the fervent energy with which he contemplated it.  
  
After the Councilors had settled, Maedhros surveyed the room once, lifted a piece of paper between two fingers, and spoke.  
  
“A letter.” He held it aloft briefly, then tossed it into the table where it landed with a resonating smack. “Brought to Himring not without trial, and not without bloodshed. A report on the current status quo in Endor.”  
  
The tension in the room was palpable.  
  
“Fingon still holds Hithlum,” Maedhros said. “Doriath remains free. Various secret strongholds – Finrod’s, most significantly - hold out against the enemy. And that is the full extent of the good news.”  
  
Silence while the statement sunk in.  
  
“If it is not clear: the Morgoth holds Ard Galen and all of the important passes into east and west Beleriand, including the Sirion and the Gap. Himlad and Thargelion are in the hands of the enemy, and Dorthonion as good as. Reinforcements pour forth from Angband all the time.”  
  
Pale, Nimedhel interjected. “You - my Lord, you said Fingon holds Hithlum. What of the High King?”  
  
“Fingolfin is dead,” Maedhros said bluntly. “Killed in single combat with the Morgoth himself, if we are to believe the account of this letter.”  
  
Stunned silence followed his words.  
  
“Well, can we? Trust the account?”  
  
“Yes.” Maedhros did not elaborate and the Councilors did not press him. Nimedhel nodded in stricken acknowledgment.  
  
“So... What do we do?” The Captain of the Guard asked grimly.  
  
“This changes nothing,” Maedhros said after a heavy pause. “We defend the hill as best we can, as we always have. We try to retake territory where possible. We provide aid to fugitives.”  
  
“Thus, we cannot expect relief from any quarter,” Gilnarion concluded, “For the allies we could count upon are routed, and the allies with the strength to help are unconcerned with our plight.”  
  
“Hithlum is cut off from us and hard pressed enough to defend themselves,” Maedhros corrected irritably. “But otherwise, yes, that is a fair summary.”  
  
Dark muttering about the loyalty of Sindar ensued.  
  
“In fact,” Maedhros continued over the sound, “Far from expecting succor from others, our city is the only outpost left standing for leagues amid this sea of enemies. If there are survivors, they will make their way here. And we must take them in.”  
  
“A most difficult feat when one’s resources are already so dangerously low,” the Councilor in charge of rations said, closing the offending file before him with unnecessary venom. “I must report, my Lord, that in addition to dwindling stores due to a population dangerously over capacity, things are simply not adding up. I am forced to believe there are thieves among our number.”  
  
Maehdros rubbed the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. “I shall have the scouts shift their focus to foraging. Nimedhel, work with them and see if it is possible to arrange a raid on some Orc encampments without too much risk. And Gilnarion, double the Proctors watching the storehouses. But have the new ones out of uniform. We may catch thieves more easily that way.”  
  
“With all due respect,” Gilnarion said hotly, “You ask me to double the storehouse Proctors. Where should I find these new Proctors? Recruit them from the undisciplined Sindarin refugees? Move them off the streets? Conjure them from the _air_? I-”  
  
“Enough,” Maehdros snapped. “I take your point, Councilor. You can have some injured guardsmen for the job.”  
  
“You cannot catch thieves with limping Proctors!” the Captain of the Guard said, outraged. “If they are injured, let them recover!”  
  
“I beg your pardon,” Maedhros said icily, “I should have been more clear. I did not mean guardsmen who are incapable of walking. You and Gilnarion together will be able to find a dozen suitable candidates, I am sure.”  
  
The Captain subsided but did not look pleased.  
  
“My Lord,” Elgon spoke up, “You mentioned raids on Orc camps to supply rations. Are we to eat the rancid meat of dead mortals, then?”  
  
“I certainly hope it will not come to that.” Maedhros’ deadpan tone made it impossible to tell if the statement was fully a joke.  
  
“There will be something edible in their camps,” Celeros said. “Or supplies, at least. A successful raid cannot be a total waste.”  
  
Maedhros nodded. “Fine. We are all agreed on this course of action, then?” None disagreed. “Good. We shall catch these thieves and take some of the enemy’s resources. Oh, and cut rations again.”  
  
A chorus of protest went up and disappeared just as quickly at the look on Maedhros’ face.  
  
“Maybe we could stop the thieves by _not_ cutting rations,” a Councillor supplied wearily. “My Lord, are we to reduce our allotted resources beyond the point where they allow us life? This cannot continue-”  
  
“I have given an order.” Maedhros raised his voice only a little. “And I do not give orders without reason, Councilor.”  
  
Gilnarion shifted in his seat. “We all know that, my Lord. It is not your judgment we doubt. But he has a point. It simply seems impossible to keep control of the city if everyone in it is starving.”  
  
“So you doubt my ability to keep control of the city.”  
  
“The refugees do not trust you as our citizens have grown to,” he replied uneasily. “They may revolt. They already have difficulty with the... exacting expectations put upon them, the, er, very particular way we do things here. And they know that the soldiery are receiving more rations than they are. The are hungry, and desperate. They may think they have nothing left to lose.”  
  
Maedhros drew in a long contemptuous breath through his nose and tilted his chin upwards. “Then we shall prove them wrong, if they are so stupid as to revolt against the rules that keep them alive.”  
  
Another uncomfortable silence ensued.  
  
“What - my Lord, you would - what, cast them out?”  
  
“I will _not_ take risks with the safety of this city! Should I feed the fighters who defend us less than those who do so little? Fugitives who would fight against their benefactors will soon find themselves fugitives on two counts.” His mouth was set like steel. “No. I will see rations reduced. For _everyone_. But we ourselves shall take a greater reduction than the soldiers and citizenry and even the refugees, as a sign of goodwill. Those making decisions must require of themselves the greatest sacrifice.”  
  
The protest that might have broken out was suppressed first by dismayed surprise and then by mulish acceptance.  
  
“What about the horses?” a Councilor supplied suddenly, hope coloring his voice. “We could reduce-”

  
“The horses,” Maedhros replied tersely, “Are not able to supplement willpower for their food. And besides, do you truly wish to eat hay, Councillor?”  
  
No one responded to that.  
  
“Very well, my Lord,” the Councilor in charge of rations said at last, lips tight as he took a note. “Did you have proportions in mind for the reductions?”  
  
“You are capable of handling the administrative details, I trust. Submit a proposal to me as soon as possible and I shall approve it.” He turned to the other side of the table. “As for the... outsider problem... Celeros, I want you to emphasize to our honored guests that there are rewards for taking on greater responsibility and integrating into our system. If they are receiving smaller rations, that is their own fault. Encourage the strongest to enlist to fight. Eru knows we could do with new recruits in our ranks.”  
  
“I will make an effort to appear personally in the northeast quarter as well,” Nimedhel added. “Perhaps if I am more familiar to the refugees it will help them see Himring and its military less as strangers.”  
  
Maedhros nodded and cast his eyes out the window, judging the light. “Nimedhel, bring me your plans for raiding the nearest Orc camp by midnight tonight and I shall look over them. Gilnarion, when you catch a thief, inform me and call the Council. I would like to make an example of the first one. All of you, I have other matters to attend to; but please remain here to read the report from Fingon’s letter in detail. I would appreciate it if one of you transferred the intelligence onto a map, as well. I trust you to delegate this responsibility appropriately.”  
  
“Ah, my Lord,” Elgon said, frowning at the letter, “There is something missing here, from the end. The parchment is torn.”  
  
“That was my doing,” Maedhros replied with dignity. “The missing portion does not concern you.” Aloof, he signaled with a hand that the meeting was adjourned. Heedless of the still tense atmosphere he left in his wake, he departed.  
  
He returned at last to his quarters and shut the door. The burn on his shoulder hurt, and stank, and screamed for attention, but he did not want to see the healers. Instead he settled with stripping to his waist and sloshing some of the mortals' clear strong liquor over the wound, gritting his teeth against the sting. It had been over twenty hours since he had slept, longer since he had eaten, and the bone-weariness of battle was beginning to sink into his muscles. He managed to eat half a slice of stale bread before giving up and casting it down upon the table in disgust. Then, without bothering to fully undress or even remove his hip guards, he staggered to the bed and collapsed upon it, and slept, and did not dream.  
  
He awoke in a haze of near-feverous confusion several hours later, guilty for having slept, but not much rested. His mouth felt like it was full of cotton. His stomach clenched and complained of hunger. Trying to rise, his burned shoulder reminded him of its plight with a vengeance, the sharp sting doubling with a deep ache that still came so often after he had slept, a memory of agony that would not die. The noontime sun was too feeble to light the room, but still managed to hurt his eyes. His head spun. He subsided back into the bed with a gentle hiss of pain.  
  
Idly Maedhros wondered if this was how his brothers had died: slow and apathetic, slipping languidly into an over-strong sleep until their souls gave up on the weakness of such cold, atrophied flesh, and departed it. An end utterly without valor. It was unlikely, he reasoned; they would have gone down fighting, flaring and burning in battle, like their father himself; and that was a comfort.  
  
Fingon yet lived; that too was a comfort.  
  
He figured something to drink would clear his head, but standing up to seek water or wine seemed like an impossible task, the few feet of cold floor an insurmountable obstacle. So he lay, watching the pale shadows move across the room and finally stretch to consume it.  
  
He was not able to muster the strength to move until night had fallen and the sparse room was cast into total shadow. Then, with an enormous surge of will, he rolled over onto his elbows and pushed himself into a kneeling position on the bed. His shoulder screamed in protest at the exertion.  
  
“Damn the Valar,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “Just get _up_.”  
  
Only with difficulty was he able to follow his own advice. Standing made his head swim and he had to grip the bedpost to keep from keeling over, but after a moment he was able to cross the room and eat the remainder of the hard bread he had discarded that morning. One of his legs was completely numb where a ridge of metal had been pressed into it for hours; he cursed his poor judgment in falling asleep in armor. He unbuckled the hip guards, let them clatter to the floor, and kicked them away.  
  
By the time he finished cleaning and dressing, the exhausted despair of the day had left him. His head was as empty and clear as a winter morning. Looking out the window into the blackness, he sighed and resigned himself to a nocturnal schedule yet again, and settled in at the table to work by lamplight.  
  
Hours later saw him sprawled loosely in his chair, poring over a series of documents with unshakable focus. Midnight came and went; Nimedhel delivered the plans an hour late, and departed an hour later after a spirited discussion regarding his Lord’s proposed changes. Maedhros kept working.  
  
He might have remained unmoving for hours more, but as he scrawled a note in the margin of one diagram, a knock on the door disturbed him like a ripple moving suddenly through still water.  
  
After the usual instant of inexplicable fear, he surfaced. “Come in,” he said shortly.  
  
“Good even, my Lord.” Councilor Elgon opened the door just enough to stand inside the frame. “Can you spare a moment? I know it is late but I hoped I might find you still awake.”  
  
Tiredly Maedhros gestured that the Councilor should enter. He did so, pulling the door to behind him but not quite letting it latch.  
  
Maedhros pushed the papers on the table out of the way, and poured a portion of wine from the jug at his elbow into an extra cup. “Speak your mind.”  
  
Without ceremony Elgon sat down and drained the proffered wine. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then placed an open sheaf of parchment, a spread of numbers and columns, on the table.  
  
“This is the file where I keep track of the use of space in the city. Public infrastructure, military and governmental facilities, and the like.”  
  
“Get to the point,” Maedhros said, not unkindly.  
  
“Yes. Well, it also includes the assignment of residential spaces. And if you examine this column,” he pointed, and Maedhros leaned over to see, “You will see that almost all of the designated residential spaces are at double capacity. _Double_ , my Lord.”  
  
“I do see that,” Maedhros said evenly.  
  
“And some areas are double _that_. There are not enough beds, yes, but also there is not enough room to lie down! And Celeros has the data for the northeastern refugee quarter, but trust me, my Lord, the situation there is only worse.”  
  
“What do you want, Elgon?” Maedhros’ voice was harsh but not cruel. “Shall I expand the city walls for you?”  
  
“I would like to requisition some space to relieve population pressure,” he said. “The storehouses, I thought. They are barely being used, anyway.”  
  
Maedhros snorted lightly. “I see. Take the space meant for food and fill it up with mouths to feed.”  
  
“The mouths are here already,” Elgon said stubbornly.  
  
With a heavy sigh, Maedhros pushed his chair back from the table, legs grating on the stone, and stood. He picked up one of the diagrams before him and began rolling it up with one hand. “Fine. Make your proposal and confer with any other Councilors whose toes you might tread on with this endeavor. I suppose it is about time we resigned ourselves to low stock and did something to alleviate this crush of people. I confess I have had incessant complaints from citizens who have been required to give up their rooms and combine with others. At least this way space will become tight less quickly. For awhile.” He strode over to the wooden chest in one corner of the room, stowed the parchment in it, and returned to stand over Elgon, who began to rise from his chair.  
  
“Thank you, my Lord. I will set to work right away.”  
  
But Maedhros held out a hand to stop him. “No. I do not think we are finished here. What did you really want to talk about, Councilor?”  
  
Elgon paused, half-risen, face frozen, looking like a caught animal under Maedhros’ dominating gaze. “...My Lord?”  
  
“Don’t do this, Elgon,” Maedhros said tiredly, throwing back a mouthful of wine, exposing his throat. “Clearly this issue could have been dealt with in Council. So what is it you need to say that you do not wish to speak of in front of your colleagues?”  
  
Slowly, Elgon lowered himself back into the seat.  
  
“Your sister, perhaps?” Maedhros prompted, raising a cold imperial eyebrow.  
  
“ _No_ ,” Elgon said, voice suddenly bitter. “No, actually. Nothing so _trivial_ , my Lord. I am here on behalf of Gilnarion.”  
  
A frown, and Maedhros stopped with his cup halfway to his lips. “He cannot speak to me himself?”  
  
“He did not think it necessary. But I am not so sure.”  
  
“If you wish to speak, speak quickly,” Maedhros said, returning to his wine. “I have business to attend to.”  
  
At once Elgon decided to stand and face his Lord - not on equal footing, for Maedhros was a whole foot taller than he was - but at least erect.  
  
“One of the Proctors saw something two nights ago,” he said doggedly. “You were walking on the street in the southeast quarter and he saw you... stumble. And collapse. Gripping your head-”  
  
It was Maedhros’ turn to go dangerously still.   
  
“He went down from the ramparts, but by the time he arrived where you had been you were gone-”  
  
“Enough,” Maedhros said. His face was very white.  
  
“See the healers,” Elgon urged, tentatively reaching out. “Please. You refuse to wear a mask despite the Morgoth’s fumes - the others caught by it have not fully recovered - they are suddenly hit by spells of dizziness and headaches - Brandil even...” As he hesitated Maedhros seemed to regain speech.  
  
“It does not affect me,” he said through tight lips. “Do you forget that I was caught in its full strength a moon ago, when the wind changed suddenly? Did I fall then, or spew black bile like the others?”  
  
“Brandil said he can hear the voice of the Morgoth,” Elgon finished in a voice full of dread. “When his mind wanders. Gilnarion told the healer who knew not to spread the news. But perhaps-”  
  
Maedhros slammed his cup down on the table, sloshing wine over his hand. “I said, _enough_.” The was an edge of fury under his voice that made Elgon take a step back, eyes wide. And for the first time speaking to his Lord, he felt fear.  
  
“Do you think that I would be influenced by the Morgoth’s voice, Elgon? Do you think I would succumb at a few paltry words from his lying tongue? When _years_ of torture, when taking _everything_ from me, availed him nothing? You think so little of me?”  
  
Feeling like the breath had been squeezed out of his chest, Elgon shook his head mutely.  
  
“Then shut your mouth so it will cease prattling of matters it cannot possibly understand,” Maedhros spat.  
  
Elgon took another impulsive step backwards, but set his jaw. “So you admit you do hear his voice.”  
  
With that Maedhros’ rage turned white hot, insuppressible, and his face twisted.  
  
“I have heard the Morgoth’s voice _every day_ since I was hung on Thangorodrim,” he hissed. “ _Every_ day, I have put up with pain and constant assault. And every day, I have overcome him anew. You cannot fathom the strength it takes, so you cannot imagine what I am capable of. Do _not_ underestimate me, Elgon. It is a waste of your time.”  
  
“The fumes are poison,” Elgon protested weakly. “At least concede to wear a mask when you sally forth.”  
  
Eyes flashing, Maedhros stepped so close that he was staring down at Elgon, their faces mere inches apart. “ _You think I do not know the fumes are poison_?” he snarled. “I breathed nothing but that poison for years! I drank of it when the tainted rain sprayed sickly over my parched lips! My naked and bloodied body was stung by its acid kiss. I have been saturated through and through with that poison, and I have gone _beyond_ it! Poison no longer has the power to harm me.”  
  
And with that, though feeling all at once wrong-footed and struck with pity, sudden hotness flared strongest in Elgon’s chest. “You are not immortal!” he shouted, completely losing his composure at last and shoving Maedhros away. “You are not productive like this! You think you are fine, but you are not! You think you hide it, but you don’t! Have some compassion for the thousands relying on you, for the love of Eru!” He stopped, hands balled into fists, breathing hard.  
  
Maedhros’ face was impassive and terrible to behold. And as Elgon’s guts twisted he realized that what he had felt before had not been fear; _this_ , looking into those terribly light, aeons-deep grey eyes grown dark with rage, _this_ was true fear. His heart danced trippingly, seemed threatening to stop.  
  
“Get out.” Maehdros’ lips barely moved. “If you think I do not take my charge seriously you are free to accuse, but do not presume to disguise it as concern for my person.”  
  
“My Lord-”  
  
Furiously Maedhros held out his severed arm in an imperious demand for silence. “Do not speak. I will finish what I am saying, and then you will leave.”  
  
With only the slightest hesitation, Elgon inclined his head in assent.  
  
“I assume your discussion of appropriating the empty storage space for housing was not a cheap ploy. My decision regarding this has not changed. Confer with whoever you must, and see it done.”  
  
A nod.  
  
“As to the rest of this... most _unique_ discussion-”- the condescension was acid – “I expect you to keep it to yourself. You are entitled to bring me your concerns; I have judged this one to be unfounded. At best. Do not bring it up again, with me or with anyone. Nod if you understand.”  
  
Elgon did.  
  
“Good.” Maedhros turned away with contempt. “You may leave.”  
  
Silently Elgon slunk out of the room, closing the door behind him.  
  
Only when Maedhros heard the latch click did he turn back around and drag a hand down his face in frustration. In three steps he crossed the room to double check that the door was firmly shut, and locked it.  
  
Then he threw himself down on the bed and cried until he ran out of tears, and lay awake but unmoving until the feeble light of a smog-suppressed morning came struggling through the window; and then he rose with mechanical precision, a body possessed, and sat back down in the chair he might have vacated only moments before, to continue what he should have been doing the whole damned wasted time.  
  
Life went on. Himring stood.   
  
A few days later disguised Proctors caught a refugee trying to steal flour from a public storehouse. The Proctors saw him, apprehended him, and kept him under guard. He did not protest innocence, but refused, white-faced, to answer the questions posed to him.  
  
When the Proctors fetched Maedhros from where he had been overseeing repairs on a scorched portion of rampart, he closed his eyes for a moment, as though in prayer. Then he set off at a brisk pace to call his Council. Waylaid with business on the way, by the time he finished mounting the stairs to the Council chamber two at a time the others were already assembled around the table.  
  
“Councilors,” he said by way of greeting as he strode to the front of the room, “We have caught a thief.”  
  
“A refugee? Or a citizen?”  
  
“A refugee. Noldorin.”  
  
Sounds of contempt.  
  
Maedhros raised a hand to silence them. “I called you because I fear my decision regarding this thief may be controversial. And I would not inflict a controversial punishment without giving my Councilors due opportunity to try and correct me, if they may.”  
  
“It is rare that we are capable of coming to better decisions than you, my Lord,” a Councilor said.  
  
Maedhros waved away the comment. “Listen first, and judge after. I think you will find what I have to say distasteful. Yet it is necessary. Here is my decision: let the thief be brought to me. I will strike off his head and impale it high on the ramparts at dawn tomorrow. Then his body will be cast from the walls, there to rot.”  
  
The Councilors blinked in shock.  
  
“My Lord - that - you cannot... You cannot do that,” Gilnarion said, almost unable to form the words, looking as though Maedhros had announced he thought it prudent to deliver up Himring to the enemy. “This thief - he remains one of the Eldar, not our enemy. To commit kinslaying within the walls of our own city - on our own people! My Lord, it would be blasphemy.”  
  
“I would consider it comparable blasphemy to give succor to an enemy,” Maedhros said coolly. “The orcs intend to starve the people of Himring with their siege; this traitor intends to starve the people of Himring by stealing rations that cannot be spared. I see no difference. We welcomed him to our city, and he thanks us by thieving lifebread from the honest. He has the heart of an orc already. Let his body lie with their unclean corpses as a warning to enemies within as well as without.”  
  
“This is folly,” Celeros spoke up, sounding pained. “Others have stolen. Why should such severe punishment fall on this thief alone?”  
  
“Because he was caught at the wrong time,” Maedhros said, eyes flaring. “The inconsistency bothers me too, Councilor, yet I prefer to make an example of this one thief rather than to make this punishment standard practice. Would you prefer all thieves to be beheaded? Or a less serious punishment, perhaps - their hands to be struck off?”  
  
The Councilors cast their eyes down at the acerbic mockery. Celeros, lips barely moving, whispered, “No, my Lord.”  
  
“Perhaps you think he should be rewarded, then. For his proactive ingenuity, his spirit of survival.”  
  
“No, my Lord.”  
  
Maedhros raised an eyebrow in cold contempt. “We are in agreement, then. You may have the honor of beheading this traitor and mounting his head on the ramparts.”  
  
Celeros said nothing.  
  
Maedhros’ eyes grew hard. “Unless you have grown so fond of the refugees in your charge that you prefer their survival to that of the loyal in our city, even when they have betrayed it.”  
  
“No,” Celeros said, finding his voice and making eye contact. “But I prefer mercy, my Lord.”  
  
There was sticky silence for a long, breathless moment. Then Maedhros spoke with a voice like flint. “Orcs would appreciate your mercy, Celeros. Yet they do not deserve it. Do not forget that the enemy takes many faces; some less hateful, but all equally dangerous in their own way.”  
  
Celeros did not answer, cheeks burning with a combination of shame and anger.  
  
With a sigh Maedhros relented and turned away form the table, folding his arms behind his back. “I will behead this traitor,” he said after a moment. “I would not ask any of you to become a kinslayer over a petty thief.”  
  
Elgon stood abruptly. “If you did ask, there are those of us who would do it without hesitation.”  
  
The Captain of the Guard rose in turn. “Some of us are kinslayers already. Let me do it, my Lord. I would spare you.”  
  
“Let me!” Celeros said, looking up urgently. “I do not doubt your judgment, my Lord. Let me prove myself.”  
  
And all at once the Councilors were all rising to their feet, all offering to take a curse upon themselves at a word from their Lord, to commit blasphemy for him, heedless of the consequences.  
  
Inexplicably Maedhros found a lump rising in his throat. “No,” he tried to say, but the word caught and came out a mere whisper. “No!” he repeated louder. The Councilors stilled and sat back down.  
  
“No,” he repeated a third time, more calmly. “I will do it myself. I will not discuss this further. But your dedication is noted. And... appreciated. Truly.”  
  
“You know we would die for you, my Lord,” Gilnarion said.  
  
“And martyr your souls, it would seem.” Maedhros’ heart felt heavy. “Yet that is a cost I would reserve for my payment alone.” A pause, and he tried to dispel the melancholy from his voice, replacing it with expressionless efficiency. “Gilnarion, see that this thief is on the eastern ramparts for the rising of the sun. Bound. But I will not suffer anyone but myself to harm him.”  
  
Gilnarion nodded, but bit his lip. “My Lord,” he ventured, “If you do plan on... beheading the traitor... I do not believe that you would deny him a clean death. Are you certain you should be the one to-?”  
  
“Because I only have one hand, you mean,” Maedhros said bluntly. “Yes, Councillor, I am certain I can sever his head with one blow. I have done the same in battle, and orcs have thick skin. This thief will be immobile and bound.”  
  
“Yes, my Lord.”  
  
“Though,” Maedhros added, “It will be difficult for me to mount the head, once severed, on the ramparts.”  
  
“The Proctors on duty will do it,” Gilnarion said quickly.  
  
“Fine.” He looked around to address the whole room once more. “I will not force any of the citizenry or refugees to attend the execution, but make it known that an extra... one eighth rations will be made available to anyone who watches. I am sure I don’t need to add that careful attention will have to be paid to identification to prevent fraud in this matter. Are there any questions?”  
  
As the Councilors shook their heads, Maedhros let his mouth twist in something that was nearly a smile. “Our task of tomorrow morning is an unpalatable one, yet we must appreciate the chance to return lawfulness to Himring. If this goes on, we may soon be able to increase rations to the point where they should have already been.”  
  
The joke went unappreciated, as someone cross and hungry might have expected from an audience in the same state. Maedhros found himself indifferent. He swept from the room.  
  
Celeros rose and hurried after him, catching him on his way down the stairs.  
  
“My Lord,” he called, “I apologize for doubting your judgment. I was wrong, I simply-”  
  
“I do not have time for this, Celeros,” Maedhros interrupted, stopping short and turning upon him, poised mid-step. “I hold Council because I _wish_ my judgment to be questioned. Do not apologize to me again, or you will be relegated to overseeing Himring’s plumbing once more.”  
  
Celeros blinked, nearly apologized, caught himself and squared his shoulders. “Yes, my Lord.”  
  
“You are doing a fine job with the refugees.”  
  
“Thank you, my Lord.”  
  
“If Elgon dies, I would like you to take over his responsibilities.”  
  
Taken aback, Celeros nodded. “Ah- is he planning on dying, my Lord?”  
  
“I am sure he is not. I just wanted to let you know. And stop saying ‘my Lord’ at the end of every sentence or I shall be forced to make you address me by nickname.”  
  
“I - yes. Alright.”  
  
For a moment Maedhros scrutinized his Councilor with a curious look. Then he gave a stiff nod, and left.  
  
The next morning dawned bright and cold, indeed brighter than any morning had been for many months. The sun cracked through the smog to stain the sky with pink, a pale hue which might have been beautiful if it did not bear such resemblance to blood, diluted, perhaps, but blood all the same.  
  
Maedhros arrived on the rampart later than anticipated. There he found the thief, hands bound behind his back and attached to his ankles so he could not rise from a crouched, kneeling position. He was shirtless, his dark hair shorn about his ears to afford easy access to the vulnerable expanse of his bowed neck. The thief was too low to see over the ramparts to the subdued crowd milling below; a mercy, Maedhros figured. He nodded greetings to the Proctors on guard.  
  
“Good morning,” he said to the thief. “What is your name?”  
  
The thief did not reply, but shivered violently.  
  
Maedhros glanced at the nearest Proctor.  
  
“His name is Curion, my Lord. One of Maglor’s people. He was working as a tanner.”  
  
“Thank you, Finweg.” Maedhros glanced down at the thief with a sympathetic look as he shook in the cold. “You should not have stolen, Curion,” he said mildly. “I regret that you must be punished so severely. Did you really think your life was worth more than that of everyone else in this city?”  
  
“My daughter’s,” the thief choked out.  
  
A pause. “I see.” Maedhros looked at him sadly. “I hope she will hold the lives of others less cheaply than you do. What is her name?”  
  
“Fuck you.”  
  
Nostrils flaring, Maedhros grabbed Curion’s chin roughly, forcing his head up. “I am not waxing poetic when I say I regret this outcome of events,” he hissed. “Tell me her name quickly and I will see personally that she has all she needs.”  
  
“Luiniel,” he said in a desperate wheeze. “She is so young-”  
  
Maedhros dropped his jaw and straightened up so he loomed over the huddled figure on the ground. “If you do not hold the Valar in contempt, pray to them now,” he said dismissively. “I will count to ten, silently, and then I will cut your head off.”  
  
He turned away to pick up his sword, and Curion began shaking convulsively. Maedhros looked out over the ramparts, twirling his sword experimentally, and tested the air with a few deft swipes as he counted in his mind. Behind him, the thief started sobbing. It looked like snow was gathering in the distance.  
  
Maedhros reached ten. In one fluid movement he spun around and swept his blade downwards, cutting clean through the bared neck and sending a spiral of blood leaping into the cold air. The head fell onto the ramparts and rolled, and stopped, face up, still leaking blood, tears already freezing on waxen skin. A subdued sound - one of recognition, and not appreciation - went up from the crowd below. Maedhros wiped his blade clean on the side of the thief’s headless corpse and sheathed it, sidestepping the head as it came to rest by his feet. He turned to the Proctor to his left. “Finweg?” He nodded pointedly at the head.  
  
Finweg stooped and picked up the head by its shorn locks, letting out a muted cry of surprise as his fingers touched wetness that had been concealed by the dark hair. He almost dropped the head. But he recovered and held it more firmly. He swung it aloft once, splattering an arc of blood along the stone, so there was no way the crowd could miss it. Then he abruptly turned to face out over the walls and slammed the severed head down on the spiked ramparts with enough force that a clump of wet gore poured from its mouth. And the head stuck there - startlingly clean and beautiful even in death amid the mounted heads of orcs stretching to either side.  
  
“Go off duty,” Maedhros said gently, touching Finweg on the shoulder.  
  
He flinched away, and hurried down the stairs from the ramparts without another word.  
  
Maedhros beckoned the other Proctor, and then bent down to grip the thief’s headless corpse by the side. The Proctor joined him and with a colossal heave they pitched the body over the wall, where it fell twisting until it broke on the rock below.  
  
Slowly Maedhros took in a deep breath, composed himself, and turned to address his city. “I strike this blow not with my left hand,” he shouted, pointing dramatically over the wall where the body had been thrown, “But with the right hand of justice!” He threw up his fist for emphasis, voice ringing clear on the empty air. “Should we permit this lone traitor, this snake who would thieve lifebread from the mouths of others, to benefit from his cowardice? That a fugitive, whom we welcomed with open arms, should so spit upon our hospitality with impunity?”  
  
The crowd gave little response. “No,” a lone voice cried out, not too enthusiastically.  
  
“No,” Maedhros repeated, lowering his arms. “No. For mercy is a virtue that can, by definition, be extended only to the guilty. And where the guilty act implicates the survival of others, there shall be no toleration. And _no mercy!”_  
  
The crowd murmured.  
  
“People of Himring,” Maedhros cried, “Ancient citizens and new-come guests, shall we show mercy to proven enemies? Shall we let this thief live, and then crawl on our hands and knees to the Morgoth and beg his forgiveness for troubling him where he sits steeped in crime upon his throne of blood? Should we lay down our arms before the orcs that come to our walls with the intent to raze them to the ground?”  
  
“No!” the crowd replied. “We are no cowards!”  
  
“Noldor: were you cowards when you abandoned a life of ease to cross the sundering sea, trading comfort for strife to claim your own? When you drew swords and pushed back the darkness, knowing that to treat with it or tolerate it is only to invite it in?”  
  
The Noldor below shouted their denial. Maedhros held out a hand and spoke again.  
  
“Sindarin brothers - were you cowards, when you held out for so long against that same darkness, alone? When you refused to capitulate, even as the tide of evil seemed unstoppable?”  
  
“ _No!_ ” they shouted in turn. “No!”  
  
“So,” Maedhros shouted, voice thrumming with energy and rising to a fever pitch, “It would seem that the elves of Himring are no cowards! That we do not tolerate enemies in our midst - that attackers and traitors will be struck swiftly, and without mercy, and hard enough that they will not be able to stand against us a second time! For such is the force of a sword in the hand of justice!”  
  
The crowd roared its approval, shouting and stamping, punching the air.  
  
Abruptly Maedhros coughed a little and turned to the Proctor still at his side. “Well, that is an unfortunate task done with,” he sighed. “Let us hope we need not repeat it soon.”

 

Slightly confused by the sudden ending of the speech, the crowd quieted and began to disperse, shuffling out of the grey square.   
  
The morning air was still, but frigid, and Maedhros wrapped his cloak tighter around his shoulders before heading towards the stairs. He climbed down. And when he turned the corner, he found the Proctor who had impaled the thief’s head bent double, vomiting the meagre contents of his stomach violently onto the street.  
  
Silently Maedhros came up behind the hunched figure. “That is a terrible waste of a ration,” he said mildly.  
  
Finweg whipped around, eyes wide at the unexpected sound of his Lord’s voice. He went to wipe his mouth with a trembling hand, but remembered the blood and thought better of it. “I am sorry,” he said thickly. “I - I am sorry.”  
  
Maedhros regarded him with an unreadable look. “Was it the blood?” he asked.  
  
“It - it was so red.” Finweg squeezed his eyes shut. “I never thought - somehow I thought - if he was an enemy, it should have been black. It’s easy to forget, when the blood on your hands is a different color from your own.”  
  
Stepping forward Maedhros took Finweg’s gory hands in his own clean one. “You spilled no blood,” he said, looking him right in the eye. “This is my responsibility alone.” He lifted a fold of his cloak and wiped gently at the red until Finweg’s hands were trembling, but clean. “You see? No blood.”  
  
“My Lord, it is still there.” His voice sounded broken.  
  
Maedhros sighed. “Go back to the Proctor’s barracks and wash up. And tell them Lord Maedhros has given you an extra ration. My loyal Proctor cannot work on an empty stomach.”  
  
“But I can,” Finweg insisted. “I am always hungry, but I have not yet failed you, my Lord.”  
  
“Go,” Maedhros said tiredly. “I will not argue with you. Go!”  
  
Finweg hesitated, but obeyed. As he receded around the corner Maedhros squeezed his eyes shut tight and lifted a hand to massage his aching temples. The scent of bile filled his nostrils, and a wave of sympathetic nausea and dizziness overtook him in turn. His head spun. He put out a hand for balance.  
  
And when he opened his eyes again his father was standing before him.  
  
Maedhros’ heart stopped dead, the breath seemingly sucked out of his chest. Dismayed, he tried to force his mind to adhere to what he knew must really be there - namely, _not his father_ \- but his senses did not comply.  
  
Fëanor stood in the streets of Himring.  
  
Slowly he turned his eyes upon his son and opened his mouth, but it took a minute for words to come out. When they did, smoke and embers issued along with them.  
  
“My last surviving son,” he said, and his voice, dry as leaves, seemed to sound from aeons away yet still cut ringing into Maedhros’ ears so sharply that a flare of pain rose in his head. “Nelyafinwë. A deferential embarrassment, too weak to even make the attempt to claim his own. Is this the last remnant of Fëanáro still living? This shade clothed in broken flesh, this _dead thing_?”  
  
The last words were punctuated with such concussive force that Maedhros felt himself cry out and fell like a puppet with its strings cut, clutching his head.  
  
Though shaking violently, struck with a lightness and weakness in his limbs and unable to rise, he craned his neck upwards to meet his father’s gaze, eyes like pits of white fire that bored into him and left him naked. Fëanor’s mouth blurred and stretched, a too-wide void of darkness, and he spoke again.  
  
“You tremble and fall at the mere sound of my voice. Yet you think you can stand against me? You will fall, little elfling, you and yours will fall and scatter like leaves before the wind. All you have built is already crumbling. I will starve you and twist you until all you used to love hate the sight of you, and your heart can feel nothing but fear and anger.”  
  
Both brain and tongue powerless to formulate a response, Maedhros cowered, and through the agony he realized he was on hands and knees, the dusting of snow bitingly cold on his fingers - five fingers - _ten_ fingers - both hands, both burning and rotting at the same time, crawling with maggots that left scalding trails glowing in his putrid flesh.  
  
He let out a choked sound of fear but it was drowned out by the voice of the figure before him, a spire of darkness still aping a taller and more terrible specter of his father. It extended an arm, and Maedhros felt his guts twist as though in a vice. He convulsed, coughed, and a fountain of black blood poured from his lips onto the icy stone, more blood than his body could have possibly held, rushing in a river down the street that suddenly tilted. He choked on it and gasped, and could neither get it all out of his mouth nor draw breath.  
  
The Fëanor-thing smiled a smile of darkness. “Your flesh dissolves like your family dissolves, like all your flimsy accomplishments; readily, as though it were awaiting the opportunity. You are already dead. You are already broken. You just do not know it yet. The harder you struggle, the harder you will fall, little elfling.” The voice became slower, gloating. “And you struggle _so hard_.”  
  
Some dim corner of Maedhros’ mind screamed to invoke the Valar, if they might aid him - and all at once the mere thought of such capitulation made his stubborn heart burn hot. He bared his teeth in a feral snarl. “Begone,” he managed to spit around the remnants of black stuff in his mouth, clawing at the ground and trying once more to rise, “Thou jail-crow of Mandos.”  
  
The pillar of darkness hissed and crackled and stretched as though in anger, then coalesced once more into a terrible imitation of Fëanor. Its mouth opened, and kept opening, until fire rose from down the pitch black throat and rose into the air. It crouched catlike over Maedhros, a looming figure of nightmare.  
  
“A warning for the last son of Fëanor: this darkness is not a passing one.” A tongue of flame flickered in and out of existence as it spoke. “It is only just beginning. It spreads through your blood. Do not look for relief in comers to your city; they herald only doom. They do not trust you.” Fëanor leaned in so close that Maedhros could smell the scent of slag and rot and burning coming off him, and spoke one last time: “And you would be wise not to trust them.”  
  
With that the shadow gathered and leapt upon him, blackening his sight, filling his lungs with choking smoke, tearing away his flesh with its touch, until Maedhros could not scream or move or even fear, could do nothing but relent and give himself up at last for dead.  
  
He had done so before; it seemed death did not want him. It was a pity and a relief.  
  
A pain in his lungs made him realize he could breathe again. He blinked and saw a concerned face, blurry, above him, blinked again and his vision was black; blinked one more time and realized he was being supported in someone’s arms, a familiar face swimming in the cold, clear, white sky overhead.  
  
“F-findekáno?” he croaked.  
  
His vision cleared. No – a Proctor. Finweg said something that Maedhros could not hear. He shook his head. His breaths came quick and painful, the only sound he could hear. He put a hand out, tried to rise, and as his legs failed to obey him his vision swirled and trembled anew into darkness. His ears rang with an insistent echo of his father’s voice.  
  
“I am fine,” he said, but his voice canted close to hysteria. “I am fine.”  
  
Again Finweg’s mouth moved without making a sound and Maedhros tried to regain some semblance of control over his body. But the slightest motion set the world reeling drunkenly. “Do not call for aid,” he begged, not knowing if he spoke aloud or just thought he did. “I am fine. Do not call out.” Desperately he clutched at the Proctor’s arm and squeezed his eyes shut, willing his faculties to return to normal.  
  
After what must have been several minutes, they did. He opened his eyes to the brightness of day and was met with Finweg’s look of anxious confusion.  
  
“My Lord...?” he whispered, and did not know how to continue.  
  
With difficulty Maedhros swallowed. “That was... I - I am well. There is a distemper in the air...” He did not bother finishing the unconvincing excuse. A violent shiver racked his body; he was drenched in a cold sweat. He lifted up his right arm, and was met with the familiar sight of empty space where his fingers should have been, and a useless stump below. A pity and a relief, like finding himself still among the living. His left hand was fine, if scarred, callused, dirty, and numb.  
  
“You have fever,” Finweg said worriedly, removing his wrist from his Lord’s forehead as though scalded.  
  
“It is not fever. It will pass.”  
  
“I have never seen - Lord Maedhros, you must see the healers!”  
  
“No!” he said again. He wiped his mouth and was surprised to see only bile and a mere trickle of blood there, red, reassuringly red.  
  
“If... my Lord, if you do not wish anyone to see, we must get off the street. The crowd... We are lucky no one came this way already...”  
  
Maedhros put out his hand to support himself and had to close his eyes against a wave of dizziness. “I cannot yet walk,” he murmured. “You will have to help me.”  
  
As though there were no question of the matter, Finweg braced his knee against the ground, pulled his Lord’s arm over his shoulder, and stood. The movement made Maedhros’ vision momentarily blacken, but he found his footing and leaning heavily on Finweg was able to walk to the nearest door. The Proctor unlocked it with only minor difficulty, and helped his Lord into the blessedly empty office within.  
  
Maedhros collapsed into the only chair and rested his head in his hand, and moved no more.  
  
After a minute of feeling quite lost - alone in a room with the indomitable Lord Maedhros nearly insensible from some mysterious ailment - Finweg shook his head to clear it and stepped around a rack of blunt swords to the messy desk in one corner. Moving a Proctor’s report out of the way, he pulled out a box of provisions.  
  
Rifling through its mostly-empty bottles, he cursed. “The miruvor here was supposed to last until next month, my Lord, but some jokers must have drunk it already, while waiting to go on duty. There is none left.”  
  
“No matter,” Maedhros said faintly, not raising his head.  
  
Finweg was silent, then went back to the box. “Ah!” he exclaimed after a moment. “The emergency lembas is still here!”  
  
“Good. Please go ahead and eat it.”  
  
He paused. “I meant for you, my Lord.”  
  
Maedhros looked up with a disgruntled expression. “Do not be difficult. You need it more than I do. I saw you - your entire breakfast is on the ground in that alley.”  
  
Finweg took a deep breath. “So is yours! And I saw you. I saw you fall to the ground and... convulse, as though you had the mortals’ falling sickness. You could not breathe – you-”  
  
“Enough!” But Maedhros' voice was more exhausted than forceful. “Please believe me when I tell you that what you witnessed was... If not commonplace, at least something I am equipped to deal with. And have done before.”  
  
Maedhros did not know if his eyes betrayed something haunted, but all at once Finweg’s face closed up with fear. He said nothing.  
  
“Give me the lembas,” Maedhros said roughly, the painfully familiar look of the Proctor’s muted terror - and pity - filling him at once with tired anger. Finweg put the lembas in his outstretched hand, and he broke it in two.  
  
He tossed half back to the Proctor, and they both began to eat with wary care, neither looking at the other as though through unspoken agreement. Maedhros swallowed the last of his bread with difficulty, and with the energy it brought came disgust at the earlier weakness that had required it. He stood, and remained standing through willpower alone. He walked to the door, unbolted it, and began to step through.  
  
But before leaving, he paused in the doorway, silhouetted by the grey light of a still-early morning. “Finweg?” he said, without turning around. “If you tell anyone about this, I will kill you.”  
  
And Finweg would sooner have walked unarmed into Angband than tested his Lord’s seriousness in the threat.   
  
After the display on the rampart the thriving slowed, if it did not cease entirely.  
  
One evening a band of riders came unlooked-for from the east, a tattered standard fluttering over them. And as they drew near, a keening cry came to the watchmen on the walls of Himring:  
  
“Open the gates! Open the gates for Lord Maglor!”  
  
One of the guards went off at a sprint to fetch the Lord of the city.  
  
Maedhros literally dropped the business he was attending to, sending a sheaf of architectural designs scattering over the street in the fitful wind, and ran so fast he made it to the gate before the riders did. He stood by in time to watch them come streaming through. Their thundering hooves and worn faces were undeniably solid, but Maedhros kept his eyes fixed upon the familiar banner, the star and harp emblazoned in red, expecting it at any moment to shimmer and dissipate like mist, ready to be angry at the error made by his watchmen - ready to rage and scoff and pretend that the hope blossoming in his chest despite himself wasn’t enough that it threatened to destroy him.  
  
But the watchmen had made no error. Maglor rode into Himring in the midst of his last veteran troop of cavalry. And Maedhros saw him, and could not believe his eyes.  
  
Before Maglor could fully dismount, Maedhros was practically leaping up to his saddle, and they barely managed to stay upright through the collision as their feet hit the ground. Indifferent to their mutual stumbling, they embraced one another fiercely, heedlessly, tight enough that they might have been trying to force their bodies to merge into one.  
  
“I thought I lost you,” Maedhros managed to choke into his brother’s hair, though his throat threatened to close over the words. “I thought I lost you, Makalaurë. I thought I lost you.”  
  
Maglor said nothing, but pressed his face hard into Maedhros’ shoulder. His cloak still smelled like pine and oiled steel. As though no time had passed since what Maedhros had since taken to be their final parting.  
  
At last they drew apart slightly, and Maglor grabbed Maedhros’ face between his hands, hands dark with dried blood, making insistent eye contact. He spoke with urgent reassurance. “Maitimo - Carnistir fled south into Ossiriand. The twins are with him. And Tyelko and Curvo are in Nargothrond.”  
  
“No,” Maedhros said in disbelief, voice nearly broken. His heart felt like it might burst, fortified as it had been against such unexpected fortune.  
  
Maglor’s eyes shined with something between pain and happiness. “Yes, Maitimo. They’re fine. We’re fine. We’re all fine.”  
  
Maedhros laughed with joyful shock, laughed through the tears pricking at his eyes. He shook his head, unable to speak.  
  
Understanding, Maglor pulled his brother close once more. He was trembling. “We’re fine, Maitimo.”  
  
“What - all, alive?”  
  
“Yes. Yes. We’re all fine.”  
  
Another laugh of near ecstasy. “I would not have believed-”  
  
Smiling grimly, Maglor drew back. “It would seem that we are stronger than our doom would pronounce us to be.”  
  
Bringing his emotions under control, Maedhros mirrored the expression and stood straight once more, though a new light shone in his eyes. “Indeed it would, brother. The Valar have been wrong before.”  
  
Maglor gripped his brother’s arm. “Let us prove so, here upon Himring. I will take the shelter you offer, and I will fight by your side to keep this hill.”  
  
A covenant passed in a look, all the love and assurance each could need from the other, and Maedhros turned to move. “But not now. Rest first. You must come to my rooms; I’m afraid we cannot spare quarters for yourself alone-”  
  
Maglor grabbed his sleeve again. “Maitimo - we were pursued by valaraukar,” he said urgently. “We could no longer see them in the distance by the time we approached the hills, but they may still be coming this way.”  
  
A sharp nod. “Guardsmen!” Maedhros shouted up at them. “Expect balrogs!”  
  
The guards flurried into activity. Maglor wrinkled his nose. “Remind me why you have your city speak Sindarin, brother.”  
  
“Fewer syllables,” Maedhros said briskly. “Now come. You must recover from your ride.” He ordered one of the guards to lead Maglor’s men to the barracks, there to receive whatever food and treatment they required. And then he led his brother into the city proper.  
  
The streets were empty save for the patrolling Proctors who enforced the curfew. The night was seasonably cold but still, and Maedhros and Maglor walked in companionable - if tired - silence. At last they mounted the stairs to his quarters and Maedhros unlocked the door.  
  
In the darkness of evening the room seemed more bare and cold than ever, the fireplace void of wood, embers, or even ashes painfully conspicuous in the icy gloom.  
  
“Homely,” Maglor said sarcastically, wrapping his arms around his torso against the cold.  
  
Maedhros ignored him and threw some wood and kindling into the hearth. With practiced ease he used his left hand to strike a flint on a chip embedded in the fireplace, sending a few stray sparks glowing orange in the dark. A second strike, and the kindling caught. Soon a small blaze was crackling in the grate.  
  
Maglor approached the fire and spread his stiff hands towards it, humming in appreciation.  
  
“How did your fortress fall?” Maedhros asked after watching his brother for a minute.  
  
A shadow passed over Maglor’s face. “We might have held out against the orcs and even the valaraukar, but there was something else. A dragon. A giant golden lizard, breathing fire. We barely made it out alive. I believe all are dead except the company that came with me.”  
  
“Not all. We have had many refugees come to Himring. Some four hundred of your people, I believe, since the Bragollach began.”  
  
Maglor blinked.  
  
“Do you remember someone named Curion?” Maedhros asked.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Hmm.” Maedhros walked over to the table, grabbing a piece of hard bread and pouring out wine for them both. “Himring’s finest fare for the Lord Maglor,” he said, holding the simple meal out to his brother. “Sour wine and bread made of sawdust.”  
  
Undeterred by the description, Maglor fell upon the food ravenously. In a minute it was gone. “Not bad,” he murmured, swallowing the last of the bread. “I have not tasted such perfection since Valinor.”  
  
A snort at the joke. “You are clearly deluded,” Maedhros accused, gesturing with his own cup. “A starving man would commend even the flavor of dust.”  
  
“You would know,” Maglor shot back. His face grew serious. “Brother, you said you have refugees, and the city has been under siege nonstop. How low are provisions?”  
  
Maedhros’ face closed. “Low,” he said expressionlessly. “But I am doing all I can to make them extend further.”  
  
“Anyone who looked at you could see that.”  
  
Maedhros briefly wondered what his brother referred to; the deep purple shadows under his eyes, perhaps? The over-sharp cut of his cheekbones? Or maybe his eyes betrayed the feverish haze in his mind of late. Yet Maglor himself looked worn and exhausted, and years older than when they had last seen one another, as though he were subject to mortal aging. He had a new scar visible just under the fine curve of his jaw; his hands were still caked in dried blood from whatever skirmishes he had partaken of during the mad flight to Himring.  
  
“We are both of us vessels, Makalaurë,” Maedhros said at last. “I am as strong as ever, and that is what matters. If I can starve and remain living, I count that too as strength.”  
  
For a long moment they stood in silent standoff before Maglor relented. “Maitimo,” he said softly, “I am very glad to be here, and with you.”  
  
“I am also glad.” The words tasted strange and new, like he had forgotten the flavor of happiness.  
  
Maglor clasped his hands awkwardly, and the motion seemed to cause him for the first time to notice the blood on them. He outstretched them before him. “Ah - brother, do you-?”  
  
Maedhros cut him off by pointing to the ready basin. Maglor murmured thanks and went about scrubbing away the grime on his hands and face, with only a slight grimace at the water’s icy temperature.  
  
While watching him clean, Maedhros took a long swallow of wine and settled loosely in the chair with his legs fully extended. Slowly Maglor’s hands began to resemble a musician’s once more. Observing his brother’s meticulous ablutions, Maedhros felt tiredness settle heavy upon him like a blanket, a combination of the wine and the warmth of the fire, the first he had allowed himself to light in his room in - three? four? weeks.  
  
“You do not mind sharing a bed?” he asked.  
  
Maglor glanced over his shoulder before straightening up and wiping off his hands on a clean part of his tunic. “Of course not. Though you must swear not to take up more than your fair share of the blankets.”  
  
“I do not swear oaths I cannot keep.”  
  
“Irony, brother? Or hubris?”  
  
Deadly serious, Maedhros cocked his head to one side. “Would I joke about matters of such import?”  
  
“Yes,” Maglor said, “If you thought no one would know you were joking.”  
  
At that Maedhros let out a snort of humorless laughter. Maglor’s mouth twisted in response, not quite a smile. He shed his armor and knelt to begin untying his boots.  
  
“You look like the dead,” Maedhros commented after another minute of silence.  
  
“I feel it,” Maglor confessed, engrossed with the laces of his boots. “That... was far from an enjoyable ride. Yet I do not regret making it.” He glanced up with a tired but genuine smile, which Maedhros could not return.  
  
A beat late he made an attempt, but his mouth did not fully cooperate. Maglor pulled a face in response.  
  
“Maitimo. I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but can you please at least make an effort to hide it if you truly wish I were dead? I would appreciate it greatly.”  
  
“Shut up and drink with me,” Maehdros retorted. “It is simply taking some time to get used to the fact that you aren’t dead.” His voice grew soft and dangerous. "” would have killed everyone in this city to have you back.”  
  
Maglor finished shedding his soiled clothes and stood, smoothing down his tunic. “I don’t think that’s true,” he said.  
  
“That is your choice.” Maedhros took another long draught of wine.  
  
The look in Maglor’s eyes crept dangerously close to pity. “I love you,” he said.  
  
“I love you too,” Maedhros replied. He paused. “Actually, I’ve loved you the longest of anyone. Everyone else who might have loved you longer is dead-”  
  
“Our mother is not dead,” Maglor interrupted crossly.  
  
“- _Or_ , does not love you any longer,’ Maedhros continued. “If she loved us she would have come with us.”  
  
“You are an idiot, Matimo,” Maglor said in disgust. “I refuse to have this debate right now.” He turned away. “Just get me a damn bath and some clean clothes. I feel like I crossed the Helcaraxë.”  
  
“No baths. Can’t spare the wood. Fingolfin died, by the way.”  
  
“Oh?” Maglor’s expression was one of cold interest. “Making Findekáno high king over us, I suppose? Unless you decide to challenge his claim to the crown. You could have it back-”  
  
“And undo all the work I’ve done?” Maedhros snarled. With some effort he controlled his voice and brought the cup casually back to his lips. “No. No, Findekáno will be king. I promise you, that will serve us just as well.”  
  
For a long moment Maglor looked at his brother. “Your love is a strange and doubtful thing,” he said at last. “I cannot decide if I am glad to have it.”  
  
“Nevertheless it is yours.”  
  
“I know. I know.” Maglor picked up his wine and perched himself on the table above his brother’s chair. He cradled the cup in both hands and took a long sip. “Maitimo,” he said, “What will become of my cavalry?”  
  
Thinking about logistics at such a time set off a flare of annoyance, but Maedhros suppressed it and tossed back the last of his wine. “I suppose I can integrate them into my own cavalry,” he said, reaching for the bottle and refilling his cup to the brim. “Or you can keep them as a separate squadron under your direction. I care not. Speak to Councilor Nimedhel about it.”  
  
Maglor hummed in response, unsure. A shiver ran down his back.  
  
“Makalaurë, do you want a cloak?”  
  
“No, I think I should like to freeze to death.”  
  
Rolling his eyes Maedhros removed his own cloak and tossed it to his brother, who caught it, though nearly spilling wine onto the floor in the process. He cursed, but obligingly tucked the cloak around his body.  
  
The sight of him sitting there, warm and safe, suddenly made Maedhros’ heart ache. He tilted his head back to meet his eyes. “Play your harp for me?” he asked abruptly.  
  
“No.” Maglor took a sip of wine. “I mean, I cannot,” he clarified. “It was lost with my stronghold.”  
  
That harp had been made in Valinor and borne from across the sea. It had not left Maglor’s side since their father had had it commissioned for him by the most skilled maker of musical instruments among all the elves. Knowing it was a pointless loss to focus on, Maedhros still could not help the wave of anger that rose in him.  
  
“I’ll have a new one made. Sumptuary edicts be damned.”  
  
“‘Sumptuary edicts,’ brother?” Maglor’s face managed to look simultaneously incredulous and not at all surprised.  
  
“Craftsmen are prohibited from producing anything but necessities during times of crisis.”  
  
“How patently reasonable.” Maglor traced the scratches in his cup with an absent finger.  
  
Maedhros made a noncommittal sound.  
  
“I could sing,” Maglor suggested.  
  
Maedhros just drained his cup and refilled it and drank again, and realized he was well on his way to being truly drunk. He was uncertain if he did not mind, or did not care. “No. Do not sing. Drink with me, Makalaurë,” he said, raising his cup. “To our brothers, who are living, and our father, who is dead, and our cousin, who is king, and our uncle, who is not, and our mother, who does not love us, and our allies, who do not aid us, and our enemy, who does not kill us, and to the gods, who do not care.”  
  
There was something in Maglor’s face that almost broke him as he raised his cup in response. “To Maitimo,” he said in an oddly raw voice, “Who is living and dead, and king and not, and does not love or aid or kill or care.”  
  
Somehow that was so odd and yet true that whether or not it had been intended as a joke, Maedhros found himself laughing helplessly. He should have cried, maybe, but hearing it aloud lifted a weight from his heart - or maybe it was the alcohol, just the alcohol - and but for the greater chill of the air and the cuts and bruises, he might have been in Formenos, sharing a drink with his brother one night by the distant light of Telperion; with troubles still pressing, yes, but in the warmth of the moment so remote that for a little while it seemed all was right in the world.  
  
At last he subsided back into his chair. “That... is not entirely accurate,” he said. “I do kill. And I do love. Too much.”  
  
“Perhaps,” Maglor replied. “Perhaps.”  
  
Maedhros wasn’t sure if Maglor was uncertain if he loved and killed _too much_ , or _at all._ He found he didn’t care.  
  
They stayed up too late, recounting old stories and reveling in the giddy knowledge that they were both alive. When they finally went to collapse into bed, Maglor hesitated, plucking at his filthy clothing.  
  
“Get me a nightshirt, Maitimo.”  
  
“Impossible.”  
  
“What - you don’t have any extra clothing?”  
  
Maedhros laughed in his brother’s incredulous face. “No. I do not. Enough refugees came here in smoldering rags that sacrifices had to be made should I not desire Himring to look a city of beggars.”  
  
Maglor just huffed through his nose.  
  
With a wry smile Maedhros turned away from him, beginning to undress. “You aren’t allowed in my bed in that filthy garb, though. Wash up and I’ll get you new clothing tomorrow.” He nodded at the basin.   
  
Maglor grumbled. He removed his tunic and half heartedly splashed some of the icy, pink-tinged water onto his shoulders and chest, pretending to scrub. When he had finished the abortive hygienic routine, he turned up the blankets and crawled under them. Maedhros had only been in the bed himself for a few minutes, and the sheets were freezing.  
  
Cursing, Maglor scooted closer to his brother for warmth. “Why in the hells you put your city in such a valarforsaken waste I’ll never-”  
  
“Goodnight, Makalaurë,” Maedhros said tiredly.  
  
Making a sound of annoyance, Maglor pressed closer again, suppressing a shiver.  
  
“I can count your ribs, Maitimo,” he murmured after a pause, drawing a finger along them. “Did you survive Thangorodrim for this?”  
  
“Survival is survival,” he said. “I do not discriminate.”  
  
Maglor hummed.  
  
They spoke no more, and slept.  
  
In the morning Maglor awoke to an empty bed and a chill that sent his breath streaming upwards in plumes of white smoke, the fire having long since burnt out. With a long stretch and a yawn, he rose and set his feet gingerly upon the icy floor. Casting his eyes around the room he saw that his brother’s cloak, lent to him the night before, was strewn deliberately over the back of the chair along with a folded set of clothing. All of his soiled clothes were missing, save for his boots, which had been cleaned. Maglor shook his head with a gentle smile. He stood and got dressed.  
  
No food had been placed out for him, so he went directly to the door and onto the ramparts, clutching Maedhros’ cloak tighter around his neck as the wind caught at it. The sky was grey but bright, almost bright enough to forget that the Morgoth’s smog still fouled the atmosphere.  
  
Maglor turned a corner. A ways down the rampart Maedhros stood with several others, simultaneously examining damage to the stone and hearing a report from an awkward Proctor. Maglor approached them and Maedhros gave an oblique nod of greeting. The others looked like they wished to greet Maglor formally, but uncomfortably took their Lord’s lead in focusing at the matter at hand first.  
  
“Arloth...” the Proctor was saying. “Nenion... Is this really necessary, my Lord?”  
  
“Continue,” Maedhros said, running his finger along a cracked portion of mortar.  
  
“Morluin, Ausir, Eledhel... Finweg. And the entire 17th squadron, excepting six cavalry. That concludes the report.”  
  
“Who are the six?” he replied distractedly, indicating a note to be made in the rampart file.  
  
“I only have their numbers, my Lord.”  
  
“Then recite those.”  
  
Maglor tapped his foot impatiently and was ignored. The Proctor gave Maedhros an incredulous look - which only Maglor caught - but peered dutifully at the sheet of paper in his hand and began reciting multi-digit numbers. When he finished Maedhros looked up.  
  
“And all the others dead... fifteen of the 17th had children. Some more than one. You will see that the appropriate compensation is made?”  
  
“It is all protocol,” the Proctor said, not without a hint of annoyance. “I’m sure we need not all memorize identification numbers. There is a file for that, my Lord.”  
  
“Indeed. Well, see that the bodies are thoroughly stripped and their arms brought to the smithies for redistribution.”  
  
“But of course.”  
  
Maedhros dismissed him with a hand and the Proctor departed. Then he addressed the rest of the group, indicating the rampart. “Make plans to repair this, but not until the segment we examined last week is secure,” he ordered. “It will hold for awhile yet, I believe.”  
  
They nodded, and as they left Maglor put his hands on his hips. “Is this the way you greet the brother you had given up for dead?”  
  
Surprisingly Maedhros gave a terse smile. It did not quite light his deeply shadowed eyes, it did not quite look happy, but damn if it wasn’t _beautiful_. “I’m sorry, Makalaurë,” he said, and there was genuine remorse there. “There is much to do.”  
  
“I know,” Maglor replied, leaning his head on his brother’s shoulder. “I was only teasing.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“This is the ending war, Maitimo,” he said suddenly. “This is the end. We might lose everything.”  
  
Eyes steely, Maedhros shook his head. “No. I have bled and starved and thirsted for endless days without dying. And like me, Himring may bleed and starve and thirst for as long as the Morgoth’s storm continues to rage. But Himring will weather it. This hill will not fall while I defend it.”  
  
Maglor did not doubt him. Could not, with Maedhros’ tone so assured and his presence so steady beside him, so steady beside him when a mere day ago each had not known if the other were living or dead. But as they stood together on the windswept ramparts, Maglor could not help a childish corner of his mind from wondering if his brother had purposefully misinterpreted the comment. For Himring might stand forever; and still, they might lose everything.

**Author's Note:**

> Your comments fuel me. Tell me your favourite line!


End file.
